Wednesday, December 30, 2009

The hall was filled with audience. They had come from far and near to listen to the old poet. At one end, on the raised podium, sat the old man, head bent and silent. Then somebody asked him to recite a poem. His poem. Words he had written. Raising his head, the old man looked at the people. His strength had gone; he knew he hadn't much longer to live. His memory had faded, there were too many to remember. Looking at the people who waited patiently, with love, to listen to his poem, the old man searched his memory. Then it came, the words in soft Spanish. He spoke of love.

He would have remembered the black hair that flowed in the wind, the red lips that send blood surging through him, those dark eyes that drew his heart and hid it between her breasts, those gentle, caring arms that embraced him and made him forget himself.

The old poet stopped. He couldn't remember the next line. He looked around for her, asking her help. Then – a man rose from the audience and recited the line. Then, another rose and the poet heard the next line. It flowed, from the different corners of the hall. The old man sat up straight and from his eyes flowed tears of happiness....

Couple of weeks ago, at the annual Bodheswaran Memorial Lecture, Sasi Tharoor spoke of those who were politicians as well as writers. Who amidst their duties as world leaders found solace and strength in writing. He spoke of Neruda.

Below, you will find a few poems by Neruda. I write this about him, because I believe any work of art that lay claim to be one, has to be created in love. Even when we speak of hatred or sorrow, we should remember we are talking about love; or the lack of it. All the rest is mere contortions of the mind. The essence of life is love. One can only pity those who cannot love, those who are afraid to love and those who pretend to love.